


Spring

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Inspired by official art, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sakura (Cherry Blossoms)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The effect of Gokudera's assumed disdain is only a little bit spoiled by the way his eyes stick to Yamamoto, the way his gaze slides down over the dark purple of his vest to the tucked-in line of his shirt." Yamamoto takes Gokudera cherry blossom viewing, and Gokudera's rough edges show some signs of melting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Yamamoto starts to smile as soon as he sees Gokudera. That’s a regular occurrence, really -- it’s hard to be around the other boy and not smile -- but he can feel it coming, this time, spreading slow and warm across his face until it crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Even when he pauses in front of the other boy he can’t get it under control, not even for Gokudera’s flat stare and pointed eyebrow raise.

“Hi.” He wants to reach for Gokudera’s hand, isn’t sure he’d be allowed. He reaches for the back of his neck instead, ruffles idly at his own hair because he doesn’t think Gokudera will actually let him brush his fingers through the smooth silver of his. “You look nice.”

Gokudera huffs a laugh, rough at the edges with amusement more mocking than sincere. “Isn’t that how you’re  _supposed_  to look on a date?” He tips his head back, lifts his chin so it makes him look taller than he actually is, like he’s actually on level with Yamamoto himself. The effect of this assumed disdain is only a little bit spoiled by the way his eyes stick to Yamamoto, the way his gaze slides down over the dark purple of his vest to the tucked-in line of his shirt.

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says easily, offering agreement as the quickest way to both placate Gokudera and ruffle him out of composure. Gokudera turns away, starts to walk down the street, and Yamamoto jogs to catch up so he can fall into step with him, turn to face the other so he’s walking more sideways than straight-on. “But you always look nice and you look  _especially_  nice today.”

It’s true, both parts of it. Gokudera usually looks gorgeous, like he’s stepped out of a photo or maybe out of a dream, some not-quite-human fantasy turned real and warm and clean-edged. But he’s wearing a shirt in a color Yamamoto’s never seen on him before, a pale pink nearly the color of the cherry blossoms they are going to see, and it’s turning his eyes soft, bringing out the soft curve of his lower lip until his mouth is even more irresistible than usual.

Gokudera rolls his eyes. “Are you begging for a compliment, idiot?” His voice is rough as usual, dragging over the words like they’re being forced from him, but his eyes are still lingering at the color of Yamamoto’s vest, his mouth coming slightly open in a way Yamamoto is pretty sure is unintentional. “You do look like you actually managed to put your clothes on the right way around. Explains why you were so late.”

“I wasn’t late,” Yamamoto laughs, leaning in because he can’t help it, because it’s hard to be around Gokudera and not tilt in to touch him. “I was early and you were waiting for me.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps, his cheeks tinging faintly pink as he reaches out to touch Yamamoto’s vest. “You’ve never worn this before. Are you sure this isn’t something I left at your place?”

“Nope!” Yamamoto isn’t watching where he’s going; he’s too busy looking down at Gokudera’s mouth, staring at the way the sunlight catches bright against the other’s hair. “I bought it just for today. I’m glad you like it.”

Gokudera looks up at him sharply, lets his hold go and looks back at the street in front of them. “Idiot,” he mutters, which isn’t actually a refusal of Yamamoto’s interpretation, and even less so when Gokudera clears his throat and jerks his chin at the shirt tied around Yamamoto’s waist. “That’s really throwing off the whole thing, you know.”

“It’s for you,” Yamamoto offers, and Gokudera misses a step and nearly falls. “In case you get cold.” He extends his hand, brushes his fingers against the unbuttoned cuffs of Gokudera’s shirt. “Ha, it even matches what you’re wearing. That’s lucky!”

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, but he’s turning his hand out towards Yamamoto’s, reaching to hold the point of contact when Yamamoto starts to pull away. “It’s not like I’m going to wear your stupid shirt.”

“That’s okay,” Yamamoto insists, still smiling, still turning his hand to fit his wrist against Gokudera’s. “I’ll have it if you need it.”

Gokudera stops, his fingers closing hard on Yamamoto’s and dragging the other to a halt with him. The road is empty as far as Yamamoto is aware, though he’s been doing a poor job of looking around them, the sunshine is warm against the back of his neck in spite of the springtime cool in the air, and Gokudera is staring up at him, his eyes shockingly soft and his lips barely parted. Yamamoto doesn’t mean to stare, not consciously, but it’s hard to look at anything else when he has Gokudera’s mouth so close to his, hard not to swallow convulsively at the flutter of reckless desire that rushes all through his body.

“Damnit,” Gokudera hisses, “You can’t look at me like that,” and Yamamoto wants to point out that Gokudera’s the one who stopped, that it’s Gokudera’s fingers warm against the pulse in his wrist and Gokudera’s lips half-parted in invitation, but there is a hand curling against the back of his neck, Gokudera urging him down into a kiss, and whatever weak protest Yamamoto might have offered dissolves into a melting sigh against Gokudera’s mouth. His lips are as soft as they looked, absent even the attempt at a frown that usually clings to them for a moment, and Yamamoto’s breathing catches on the heat in his blood, unimportant things like air and coherency sliding away so all his attention can be devoted to the unexpectedly gentle friction of Gokudera’s mouth on his and Gokudera’s tongue barely brushing against his lips.

Then Gokudera’s pulling away, running his tongue across his lower lip like he’s tasting the lingering damp from Yamamoto’s mouth, and Yamamoto makes a tiny broken noise like he’s been hit, or like he’s trying to breathe without ever having done it before. Gokudera looks sharply at him, and then his eyes go soft for just a moment, his mouth twisting into a smile so quick Yamamoto isn’t even certain he’s seen it.

“It’s a date, right?” He lets his fingers trail free of Yamamoto’s neck, turns to resume walking down the street. It takes Yamamoto longer to catch up, this time, his movements slow and stuttering with the fizzing warmth in his blood. “You’ll have to be subtle once we get to the park, anyway.”

Yamamoto doesn’t point out that Gokudera is the one who kissed him. He’s hardly complaining, after all, with his mouth hot with the imprint of Gokudera’s lips and his fingers catching at Gokudera’s every time he swings his arm. Besides, he has some idea of how the cherry blossom viewing is going to go, regardless of what Gokudera says right now.

Yamamoto’s not surprised, then, when Gokudera leans in against his shoulder as soon as they sit down, shoves at his arm with some complaint about taking up all the space and then doesn’t move his hand away when it ends up caught with the other’s fingers. And in the end there’s no one paying them any particular attention, and Gokudera lets Yamamoto work his arm across behind the other boy’s back until he’s holding Gokudera in against his hip, until all he has to do is turn his head to skim his lips against Gokudera’s forehead. By the time the sunlight is fading to the golden glow of oncoming sunset, Gokudera doesn’t even protest when Yamamoto does turn in against him, closes his eyes and breathes in against the spicy-sweet of Gokudera’s hair.

Yamamoto can barely remember the flowers by the time they finally move to go home. Still, he’s certain this is the most beautiful spring he’s ever seen.


End file.
